


You Can Do It (We Can Help)

by Laura Kaye (laurakaye)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint's paint chips are basically all purple, Clint's relationship insecurities, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Home Improvement, M/M, Maria's eyerolls can be seen from space, Undercover as a Couple, Word count challenge, Written on a Dare, because clint, even evil people have hobbies, fake wood finishes, having a domestic at Home Depot, sapphic wet dream Maria Hill, working out your issues in an inappropriate venue, you have to match the undertones or it won't look right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 21:09:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10930083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurakaye/pseuds/Laura%20Kaye
Summary: Apparently, having a fight in a home improvement superstore is a totally normal couple experience.Clint wouldn't know. He's never exactly been normal.





	You Can Do It (We Can Help)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JHSC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JHSC/gifts).



“I still don’t understand why this needed four of us,” Clint grumbled, flicking through the paint chips he’d chosen more or less at random and holding one up. 

“It’s a big store,” Phil said, frowning between it and the shelf of countertop samples. “I think the undertones are wrong on that one. Do you have one that’s warmer?”

“I have to agree with Clint,” Natasha murmured over the comm. Clint could see her out of the corner of his eye, flicking through carpet samples and occasionally stopping to write something down in a notebook that she pulled from the breast pocket of her flannel shirt. “Any one of us could handle this mission. Markov’s a lunatic, but he’s hardly a spy.”

“No, but he is paranoid,” Maria said, under pretense of leaning in to flirt with Natasha. She was wearing a white tee, jeans, and combat boots; she looked kind of like a James Dean-inspired queer pinup, and Clint had seen at least three women in the parking lot who obviously wanted nothing more than to be clubbed over the head and tossed into the back of Maria’s Subaru. “He doesn’t go anywhere but home and Home Depot. If we’re going to make the switch, it has to be here.”

“Are we even sure he’s got the drive on him?” Clint picked another paint chip out of his stack and offered it to Phil with a questioning eyebrow.

“He carries it on his keychain,” Phil said. He sighed at the paint chip. “That’s still too cool. Are you sure you don’t like the silver cabinets? They’d go better with the purple.”

“No I _don’t_ like the silver, do you want our kitchen looking like a Depeche Mode album cover? I want normal brown cabinets and purple walls, why is that so hard?” Oops. He’d maybe gotten a little loud; people were looking. Cool it, Barton, don’t get your actual relationship issue chocolate in the mission peanut butter.

“Boys,” Maria said. “Can we please not have a lovers’ quarrel in the middle of the mission?”

“Hmm,” Natasha said, flicking her ponytail. “Actually.”

“Oh God.” Phil set down his chunk of counter with a clack. “What.”

“He’s looking at you,” Natasha said. “Have a lovers’ quarrel and I’ll make the swap while he’s distracted.”

“I hate you,” Clint said.

“You hate those granite counters Phil’s molesting,” Natasha said. “Put some drama into it.”

“You know, when Fury asked me if I wanted to save the world from unique threats, this wasn’t what I envisioned,” Phil muttered, then raised his voice a little. “I still think that a nice ecru would be better for the resale value.”

“Oh here we go,” Clint said. “Always with the resale value. I’m sick of the resale value!”

“Well forgive me for caring about my investment!”

“ _Your_ investment,” Clint said, stepping back and letting his voice drop. “Because I contribute nothing—”

“That wasn’t what I meant! Christ, stop putting words in my mouth. I just—people want neutral colors, that’s all!”

“What people? Nobody lives there but us, why should it matter what other people think?” Clint glared at Phil, but caught a dangerous twinkle in his eyes that made the corner of Clint’s mouth twitch in sympathetic amusement. He looked down at his handful of paint chips to keep from laughing. “Or are you trying to tell me something?”

“Don’t you put this on me!” Phil spat. “I wanted to get a decorator! You’re the one who wanted to spend the weekend elbow-deep in, in paint chips and tacky fake wood finishes!”

Clint reared back, trying to look insulted, and he noticed Markov actually moving a little closer, giving up all pretense that he wasn’t eavesdropping. Natasha was edging around toward him; time to really sell this thing.

“Your _ex_ is not a _decorator_ ,” he snarled. “He just tells his mother that so she won’t kick him out of the house!”

Behind him, someone said, “Oh, snap.” Maria snorted over the comm line. 

Phil huffed. “Lyle isn’t my ex, he’s my friend,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you have against him, anyway?” 

“Oh, you mean besides the fact that you went to dinner with him when Melanie was in town and you told me you had to _work?”_

“I did have to work! Melanie came and pulled me out of the office, we ran into Lyle by accident!” 

A woman at the Corian display snorted. “Sure, that’s what they all say.”

Clint turned around and buried his face in his hand, peeking out through his fingers while trying to look like he was struggling for control. Markov was fascinated, flat-out staring, and Natasha was within arm’s reach of the keychain dangling from his belt loop. Time to bring it home.

“I feel like you’ve always got backup plans,” he said, trying to project enough for Markov to hear him while still appearing to not notice their audience. “Looking at listings, eating with Lyle, this obsession with resale on the condo—it’s like you’ve got one foot out the door already. If you want out,” and here Clint’s voice, unexpectedly, wobbled a little; the rest of it had been play-acting, but this… this was hitting a bit too close to home, when he said it to Phil. He scrubbed his hand over his face. “I know I’m not what you want, long term. But I wish you’d just say so, instead of making me wait for the blow.”

“Clint,” Phil said, his voice gone soft. He reached out and touched Clint’s shoulder. “Please turn around.”

Clint turned, reluctant, and Phil took both his hands. 

“You _are_ what I want,” he said. “Babe. You have to know that.”

“Do I?” Clint bit his lip. “Really?”

“Really.” Phil moved in a little closer. “I didn’t want to say anything until I made sure I could do it, but I _have_ been thinking about selling the condo. I thought—I mean, I know it’s kind of soon, but I thought maybe we could buy something together. With more space, so you could have an office again, maybe a yard for a dog?”

“You—you’d want that?” Clint didn’t have to try to make his voice go soft and hopeful, even though they didn’t live in Rhode Island and Phil would move out of his rent-controlled apartment when hell froze over. “I mean—with me?”

“Of course I would,” Phil said. “Clint, you—don’t you know that you’re the best thing that ever happened to me?” 

Someone sniffed loudly. Someone—Markov?—went “awww.” In the comm, Natasha tapped out the all-clear signal, already heading toward the exit with the drive in her pocket and its duplicate, virus loaded, neatly in its place.

“I—same,” Clint said, and leaned his forehead against Phil’s. “God, Phil, me too. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too, sweetheart,” Phil said, and pulled Clint into a deep, slow kiss. When they finally came up for air, Phil pulled the rest of the paint chips out of Clint’s hand and tossed them on the counter. “Tell you what,” Phil said. “Why don’t we get out of here, let me take you to dinner. Maybe we can look at some houses?” 

Clint let the smile on his face be exactly as goofy as it wanted. “Yeah, babe,” he said. “I’d like that.” 

And they walked out hand in hand.

**Author's Note:**

> So I have been having some home repair mishaps and I was telling JHSC about it and then this happened:
> 
>  
> 
> JHSC: "Fake wood finishes" should be some sort of porn term, btw  
> Me: heeeeeeeeee, I dare you to write a ficlet with that as a relevant tag  
> JHSC: DO NOT LEAD ME ASTRAY  
> Me: oh man it would fit in so well with something I was talking about with Kathar and Faeleverte the other day  
> unusual settings for a fake relationship undercover  
> and someone suggested "having a domestic in Home Depot"  
> JHSC: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA  
> I dare you to write the whole thing in... hmmm.... precisely 1,234 words  
> If you succeed, I'll mail you cookies  
> Me: oh god  
> JHSC: Ghirardelli chocolate chip  
> Me: OH GOD FINE 
> 
>  
> 
> So here we are, and at least according to Pages, it's 1,234 words exactly. I await my cookies! :-D


End file.
